


On the Tip of My Tongue

by ereshai



Series: Marvel Shipping Games [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amnesia, Head Injury, M/M, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 14:40:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3071855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ereshai/pseuds/ereshai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you remember anything?" she asked. Her voice had a dangerous edge to it. He had a feeling that she would do something painful to him if she thought he was screwing with her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Tip of My Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Round 1 of the Marvel Shipping Games on Dreamwidth. The prompt was memories. I've changed the ending a bit to one I like better. :)  
> Beta'd by the always lovely notaredshirt (except for the changed ending).

_“Status report.”_

_“In and out, no problem, boss.”_

_“Debrief at 0800.”_

_“I’ll see if I can fit it in my sch-shit!”_

_“Barton? Barton, report!”_

_=_

He blinked awake. Bright lights hurt his eyes. Everything was a white blur, and he had a bone-deep urge to flee.

“And how are we feeling, Mr. Martin?” A man in blue scrubs leaned over the side the bed and reached for his face. He jerked away, and groaned. His head was throbbing.

“Stay still, honey.” There was a woman with red hair on his other side, holding his hand. She was dressed in a black gown and her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, held in place with a jeweled clip. Her makeup was perfect. He didn’t know her name, but she seemed familiar.

“Where am I?” His voice came out in an unintentional whisper.

“We’re in the hospital. You bumped your head, silly,” she answered him. The way she spoke didn’t fit; maybe he didn’t know her, after all.

The man – doctor? physician’s assistant? nurse practitioner? – checked his eyes. “It was a bit more than a bump on the head, Mrs. Martin.”

The woman’s hand tightened on his, but she didn’t say anything, and her vaguely worried smile didn’t falter. The smile didn’t match the barely concealed impatience in her eyes, though. _Yeah, I think I_ do _know her._ It was a comforting thought.

“Do you remember what happened, Mr. Martin?” That was the second time the medical guy had called him that. Was that his name? Was he married to the red-haired woman? Okay, sure. He lifted their joined hands. Yep, he was wearing a ring, a little scuffed. He didn’t think it would come off easy; he’d obviously been wearing it for a while. The ring felt right, but her hand in his... He had a sudden vision of another hand, much larger. A man’s hand, callused and scarred.

“Mr. Martin?” the medic prompted him. “How are you feeling?” The name didn’t feel like it fit quite right.

“I’m, um, not sure what happened. My head hurts.” He was crushing the woman’s hand, but he couldn’t make himself let go. The urge to _get out_ was stronger, and she was the only person he thought he could trust.

“Memory loss is not uncommon after head trauma. Do you know the date?”

He was drawing a blank, so he just shrugged.

The medic looked thoughtful. “Can you tell me your wife’s name?”

As much as he didn’t want to reveal that he didn’t know, not answering the question would bring more attention to his situation, and that would be very bad, though he didn’t know why he felt that way. “Mrs. Martin,” he said, as confidently as he could.

His wife smiled, but it was an irritated one. “Please, this isn’t the time for jokes, darling.”

"I don't actually know," he said finally.

"Do you remember your own name?" the medic asked.

There was one name…”Phil?” Now it was his wife's turn to squeeze his hand too hard as she shook her head.

"Do you remember anything?" she asked. Her voice had a dangerous edge to it. He had a feeling that she would do something painful to him if she thought he was screwing with her.

“I’m pretty sure I know you. I just don’t remember you.” It sounded stupid when he said it out loud. She gave him a hard, searching look, and apparently decided to believe him.

“I’m Natalie, your wife, and your name is Charles,” she said softly, with an undercurrent of tension. Of course she’d be tense, worried, but he got the feeling that there was something else going on. Or maybe he was just a suspicious bastard.

“Okay.” Neither of those names felt _right_. It was like he was in a strange universe where everything was just a little out of whack. He was sure if he could just get the correct answers, everything would come rushing back to him. “Why are you all dressed up?”

“We were attending a party. Some drunkard ran into you and knocked you off of a first floor balcony. You hit your head, among other things.” Her voice was indignant, and once again, her tone was at odds with the look in her eyes – cold fury this time. He had no reason to doubt her story, but he couldn’t make himself believe it. There was no way he would let some drunk knock him off of anything. He might not remember a single thing about his life, but he knew that much about himself.

Now that she had said something, he noticed the various aches and pains throughout his whole body. Nothing too major, he decided, though the medic – why wasn’t he wearing any identification? – was all worked up about them. He tuned the guy out; he knew how to deal with a concussion and bruises, and wasn’t that an interesting thing to figure out about himself?

Natalie – it felt strange to call her that, even if it was just in his own head – finally talked their way out of an overnight stay. It’s not like they had a cure for amnesia, which would probably resolve itself in a day or two, and he could rest just as easily at the hotel. Natalie paid their bill with a black credit card; it had no visible logo. Funny how he knew that was a big deal, and he didn’t know a single detail about his life.

The medic had insisted that he leave in a wheelchair. Despite his protests, he was grateful for the ride out; his head had started spinning as he was getting off the gurney. There was a limo waiting right outside the door. The orderly pushing his chair didn’t help him into it, though; the driver, a bald man with glasses, did that.

“What have you done to yourself this time?” the driver said as he helped him to his feet.

He wondered if he was supposed to know this guy. Probably. “Just a little bump.”

Natalie, supporting him on his other side, snorted. “ _Charles_ is having some memory issues.”

“What kind of issues?” the driver asked, as if he had every right to demand answers.

“The kind of issues where he doesn’t have any memories at all.”

“Shit,” the driver muttered. “Is there any point in going back to the hotel?”

“We can still salvage this.”

“Salvage what?” he asked. There was definitely something up.

“I’ll explain later,” Natalie told him, then said to the driver, “The hotel. As soon as I have more intel, I can reconfigure the plan.”

“Plan?” he asked, but they both continued to ignore him in favor of helping him into the back of the limo. Natalie slid in beside him, and the driver got in the front seat. She helped him as he fumbled with the seat belt, and it was barely buckled before they drove away.

“We’ve got to call this in. Coulson isn’t going to be happy,” the driver said.

His pulse jumped at the name. It felt more familiar than his own had. Maybe now they were getting somewhere. He turned to Natalie. “What’s going on?”

She looked at him carefully before she responded. “Your name is Clint. Clint Barton.”

They both waited a tense moment. The rush of memories he had half expected – hoped for – did not come. He shook his head. At least this name felt right.

“We’re not married, are we? What’s your name?”

“No, we aren’t married. My name is Natasha Romanoff.”

“And him?” Clint pointed at the driver.

“Jasper Sitwell. Lover, fighter, and all-around awesome guy,” the driver answered.

“Once we get to the hotel, we won’t be able to speak freely. Our rooms are bugged.” Natasha – using that name somehow made his head hurt less – pulled a few strands of her hair out of its sleek bun, and scrubbed at her cheeks, her skin reddening with the effort. She started blinking rapidly, until a few tears escaped, smearing her eye makeup slightly.

“What are we, spies or criminals or something?” he asked, but he thought he already knew the answer.

“We’re undercover – spies, as you said. There’s a weapons broker staying at our hotel. He needs investors and we’re posing as a couple looking for an illicit thrill – stupid rich white people who are bored with their easy life. Jasper’s our back up.”

“And Coulson?” Saying the name sent his heart jumping again.

“He’s running this op. We need to let him know what happened.”

The limo pulled in to a gas station, and Jasper got out. He swiped a credit card at the pump and started filling the tank, then left it to go inside. Clint watched him through the windows, where he could see him standing at the counter briefly before he disappeared to the back of the store.

“Jasper’s checking in.”

“You sure about that?” Clint didn’t get the same instinctive feeling of familiarity with Jasper as he had with Natasha.

“I trust him. So do you, usually.”

“I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”

They waited in silence for Jasper’s return. When he did, he was holding a cheap cell phone, which he tossed to Natasha. “He wants to go over the options with you.”

Natasha quickly dialed a number as Jasper put away the gas nozzle. By the time Jasper was back in the driver’s seat, she was speaking to someone on the other end, telling them details of Clint’s injuries.

“I’m putting you on speaker,” she said eventually.

“ _Barton, how are you feeling?_ ” The voice was familiar, even distorted by the speaker, and it sent a wave of warmth through him. Right or wrong, he was trusting these people, and he was probably going to help them, too.

“My head hurts. Sir.”

There was a pause. “ _I see_. _Romanoff, recommendations?_ ”

Natasha began outlining several ideas, but with no context, Clint was lost. He tuned out the conversation, closing his eyes and resting his head on the back of the seat. Limos were really comfortable. He dozed off a little, dreaming of a man with kind blue eyes and a crooked smile. That’s where he belonged, with that man. He just had to find him.

“…all right, Clint?” The sound of his name shook him fully awake.

“Huh?” He rubbed his face carefully. It felt like he had a black eye.

The limo was stopped in front of a swanky-looking hotel. Jasper was no longer in the driver’s seat, and when he looked at Natasha, she was examining him closely. The phone was nowhere in sight.

“Do you want to call the op? Or do you think you can play along long enough for us to finish this?” she asked in a low voice.

He thought about it. “Maybe?”

She nodded, as if that was the answer she had been waiting for. “Remember, you’re a bored, rich idiot with a taste for danger.”

The door opened. Jasper was standing there, his hand extended to help them out. Natasha – or was it Natalie again - took it and exited gracefully. She stopped a few feet away from the limo and waited, projecting an air of worried wealthy woman; she was good. Jasper reached in again to help him. Clint wasn’t sure how he was supposed to play this. His first instinct was to show no weakness, no sign that he had been injured; he knew he could power through until they were in their room. But he was playing a part. How would Charles Martin behave when injured?

Charles probably thought he was pretty tough, but wasn’t really. That meant manly weakness; he could do manly weakness. He ignored Jasper’s outstretched hand and got out of the limo slowly. As soon as he was upright, he put a hand on Jasper’s shoulder and held on tight.

“Let’s go. Carefully, but not like we’re trying to,” Clint muttered as soon as the dizziness passed.

They walked, slow and steady, into the hotel, with Natalie-Natasha ahead of them. She loudly demanded a wheelchair for her ‘gravely injured husband’, and one was produced, along with a hotel employee to push him along. Clint made a show of giving in to her demands that he ‘sit down before you fall and hit your head again.’ Jasper was dismissed with an imperious wave and instructions to see to the car.

Their elevator ride up to their room – the penthouse; _nice_ – was silent, although Natalie – Natasha – screw it, he was just going to think of her as Nat – held his hand. The employee took the wheelchair away when he left, and Clint made his way to the couch, collapsing onto it as soon as he reached it. Penthouses in swanky hotels were really comfortable, too.

Nat nodded at him, and picked up the phone. “Mila Kopecky’s room, please,” she said, and waited. “Mila, it’s Natalie. I need your help.” A pause. “Charles was almost killed tonight…Of course we went to the hospital, but the ridiculous doctor – if he really was a doctor-“

Another pause. “Charles needs a real doctor. No, he isn’t going to die. It’s his memory, he doesn’t remember a thing.” She turned away and lowered her voice, though Clint could still hear her perfectly well. “He’s the one with the passwords and access codes. I can’t get a single dime without his say-so; Gerhardt won’t even speak to me. He always pawns me off on his assistant.”

She was silent for a while. “Oh, Mila, would you? Do you think he would come? …Yes, that shouldn’t be a problem, I have that much on hand…Thank you so much, Mila, you are a darling.”

Nat hung up the phone. “Mila – you don’t remember her, of course – she knows someone, a real doctor,” she told him brightly. “She’s going to ask him to come and check on you as soon as possible.”

He nodded, and she glared at him. “That sounds like a good idea,” he said after a moment.

“Of course, now I owe her a favor. I shall never be rid of her at dinner parties.”

She didn’t seem to require a response this time, so he let his eyes slip shut. His head still ached, and he couldn’t relax, despite the comfortable couch, but he managed to drift off again.

A knock woke him. He tensed, ready to get up, but his whole body protested, so he stayed where he was. Nat went to answer the door, mouthing ‘Coulson’ as she passed him.

“Hello, you must be Dr. Carlson,” she said to the man at the door.

“Yes. I understand your husband has been injured?” It was the voice Clint had heard over the phone. He struggled to sit up and see the man it belonged to, but a wave of dizziness put him on his back again. He groaned and tried not to throw up.

Dimly, he heard them approaching, but he was concentrating on taking slow, deep breaths. The couch dipped under someone’s weight, and a warm hand cupped his face – a man’s hand. Clint opened his eyes. It took him a moment to focus, but then he was looking at the man from his dream; even when he had amnesia, it appeared he couldn’t forget those eyes. Clint reached up and covered Coulson’s hand with his own.

Coulson closed his eyes and bowed his head, sighing heavily. Then he leaned down and rested his forehead on Clint’s.

“Thank god you’re all right,” he whispered. Then he pulled away. Clint wanted to grab him and hold on, but Coulson and Natasha started going through the motions for anyone listening in. He desperately wanted to remember his life, all of the moments that had led to this feeling of safety he had with the two of them in the room. He wanted to remember other times Coulson had touched his face the same way, other times he’d looked at him like that. He wanted to remember Coulson’s first name, dammit.

Instead, he fell asleep.

Clint woke up in a very comfortable bed. He needed to stay in high-end hotels more often. He rolled over. Phil was sitting in a chair by the window, reading a newspaper.

“Hey, babe,” he said, then bolted upright. He’d just blown the whole mission. The fact that his memory was back was small comfort.

Phil folded the newspaper and laid it on the small table in front of him. He didn’t seem very concerned with Clint’s blunder. “It’s okay, Clint. We moved you to another hotel. No bugs.”

Clint blew out a relieved sigh and flopped back onto his pillow, a move he immediately regretted. “Ow,” he said and put a hand on his aching head.

Phil came to sit by him on the bed. “I’ve got some painkillers for your headache, if you’re up for it.”

“Hell, yes. Please.” Phil grabbed the pill bottle from the nightstand and shook out two pills while Clint sat up again, more slowly this time. “Thanks,” he said when Phil handed him the pills and a glass of water. “So what’s the status of the op?”

“Your amnesia helped us catch a break,” Phil said. “The weapons broker contacted Natalie Martin and convinced her to smother her husband in his sleep so she could inherit all of his money.” He shook his head. “Charles Martin’s tight-fisted ways doomed their marriage, and ultimately led to his death, I’m afraid. Apparently, our target likes dealing with wealthy widows much better than married couples. You’re officially off the op, but we’re in.”

Clint nodded, simultaneously glad they’d finally gotten a break and worried about Natasha going deeper without him. Not that she couldn’t take care of herself. At least she’d have Sitwell as back up.

“I’m glad your memory’s back, by the way,” Phil’s voice was soft.

“Worried, huh?”

“A little.”

“There is one thing I don’t remember, though. How the hell did you get me out of the other hotel?”

“You were actually very cooperative. We transported you out by private ambulance while you played dead.”

“I got to play dead, and I don’t remember? Damn.”

Phil just smiled. “How’s your head?”

“A lot better now.” Clint reached over and pulled Phil into a hard kiss.


End file.
